Tim McGee Sees It Through
by Goldfish Girl
Summary: What should have been a routine interview has gone, as they say, pear-shaped. Now Tim must figure out how he got in this dangerous situation, and then get out of it. But Gibbs and his teammates are there to back him up. In more senses than one.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: Don't own Tim, Gibbs, Ducky, Tony, Ziva, or Abby. Or the universe in which they operate. I'm just playing in DBell's and Shane Brennan's sandbox.  
Rating: T; lots and lots and of Tim-whump.  
Spoilers: Season 7; up to 7.15, "Jack-Knife" in general, and a few specific ones for 7.01.  
Genre: General/Drama/Hurt-Comfort/Case-Fic/Drama  
Characters: Tim-centric; All Hands On Deck. (Plus assorted OMCs.)  
Pairings: None  
Notes:  a) A completed fic, in six parts; I'll post one a day until it's done.  
b) Title borrowed from P.G. Wodehouse.  
c) Inspired, encouraged, and has lovely bits written by, melliyna on LJ. She is my muse and partner in crime, and this fic would not have come to be without the lovely crack ficlet she wrote me for the prompt, "Gibbs, McGee, ER, waiting/worry"

Summary: What should have been a routine interview has gone, as they say, pear-shaped. Now Tim must a) figure out how he got in this dangerous situation, and b) get out of it. But Gibbs and his teammates are there to back him up. In more senses than one.  
**  
Chapter 1**

_**NOW**_

_Thank god Tony's not here to see this.  
_  
It was a stupid thing to think, but it was the one thing running through Tim's mind as he drifted back into consciousness. Slowly, painfully, and with all the stubbornness he could muster.

He hurt. He was tied to a chair, and he hurt all over. It came back to him in a rush. He catalogued it, clinically. At least one blow of a rifle butt to the back of his head. The pain of which was taking up at least 60% of his processing capacity. Several blows to the ribs, a sprained, probably broken wrist, and....blood? Blood running down his crisp white shirt front. Oh yeah, the (most likely broken) nose. Plus, getting bodily shoved into the cramped trunk of a '78 Dodge Dart did not help at all.

As he regained his vision, he saw...well, that there was really not that much to see. Bare bones lighting. What seemed to be a warehouse. A warehouse that, now that he thought about it, was really, really cold.

Cold. Hypothermia. Shock. None of this was helping his state of mind all that much. Tim, against his will, was starting to hyperventilate. His inner monologue was working overtime, and starting to sound really panicky. And kind of like his 9th grade Scout leader. The one Tim absolutely detested.

_STUPID. STUPID. Weak. Incompetent. What the heck did you think you were doing, parading around as a field agent? The one time Ziva and Tony let you out of their sight, and this is what happens?_

Fortunately, after 7 years, his inner voice also contained a good measure of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.  
_  
MCGEE! McGee, listen to me. Do. Not. Panic._

Also, a fair bit of one Doctor Donald Mallard.

_Calm down_, _Timothy. If you slow down your breathing, your cognitive function will improve_.

And it did. Although the fact that he was talking to himself in the voice of three different people? Kind of freaking him out, now.

"Okay. Okay.", he whispered to himself. "Gotta think. Gotta process. Where is this? Where am I?"

_Begin from the beginning, McGee._

_**Then**__  
_  
"McGee. *pause* McKay. McDuff. McDonald. McGee. McGee."

Tim dragged his eyes away from the monitor, and heaved a sigh. Mostly for Tony's benefit, though.

"Yes, Tony?"

The senior agent smiled.

"Darn, forgot my question, now. Ah, yes, that was it: have you heard back from Frederick PD on the Slocumb case yet?"

"No, Tony. And I hadn't when you asked me that question 15 minutes ago."

"But that was 15 minutes ago. Things could have changed since then."

"You're just bored, because it's been an incredibly slow day. And you, for the moment, have nothing to do."

"I...really don't."

And then Tony got that gleam in his eye, the one Tim had learned to instinctively fear.

"Sit, and entertain me."

"You're really more of a secret geek than you let on, Tony."

"What?"

"Don't what me. You just made a Star Trek reference."

"No, no, nooo, what I made was a Ricardo Montalban reference. Much cooler."

"A reference *from* the Star Trek episode 'Space Seed'_."_

_"_Which I only made because _you_ made me sit through it that one time on a stakeout."

"Nevertheless...."

Tony seemed to sense that he had lost this argument, and looked around desperately.

"Where the hell is Ziva?"

"I really wish I knew, Tony. She'd share my triumph, for one."

"Triumph, what triumph? Truce, if anything."

A familiar throat was cleared behind both of their heads. Tim and Tony reflexively flinched. Tim turned towards the stairwell. He found Gibbs, arms crossed and expression unamused, standing next to the invoked Israeli. Who was grinning widely.

Gibbs wordlessly nodded to Ziva, and her smile became even broader as she spoke for their boss.

"If you both are quite finished waging war on each other?"

"Yes." "Yes."

Gibbs's expression lightened somewhat, and he finally spoke. "Dead sailor in Anacostia. Ziva gets to drive."

Tim and Tony exchanged horrified looks, but followed the other two to the elevator.

*******


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**NOW**_

Tim, looking back on that moment, made a judgment.  
**  
**"Ziva driving. Damn, I should have known. That was the sign, right there, that today was gonna suck."

He tried to laugh at his own joke, but found that the physical act hurt too much. The thought depressed him.

_McGee, if you don't get out of this? Don't think Tony's going easy on you. Or that I will. Death is no excuse._

Tim McGee would've liked to object to Gibbs. Maybe. Truthfully, having Gibbs in your brain when you were slipping in and out of consciousness was kind of reassuring. Even if he was still yelling. Especially, if he was still yelling. Obviously, Gibbs wouldn't be yelling at him if things were really dire. It was like having a snarky and assertive Marvin The Paranoid Android in your head. If Marvin had gone in for head-slapping.

Even if he had managed to get hit over the head, beaten and tied to a chair by a Vogon and his accompanying goon squad. Which, Gibbs was right, Tony was going to tease him about.

_Now, now, young Timothy. Don't give in to the urge to take Anthony seriously when he goes off on one of those tangents of his._

He decided, then and there, that since it was very likely he might not escape this alive, talking to himself (in the form of Gibbs and Ducky) was really the least of his problems.

"I prefer when you're the one talking to me, Ducky. You don't yell, like Gibbs."

_Yell like me how?_

And of course, his inner Gibbs would have that telepathic ability to know exactly when You Were Committing Mischief. Which was terrifyingly Dad-Like, really. Capt. McGee had been able to do it too. Though, also like Gibbs, he only used his power for good. Especially when Sarah had gotten him into something, and Tim was only going along for her sake. Which, come to think of it, Gibbs had been able to identify as well.

When his captors returned, it would probably be good to not babble this out loud. If he was going to shuffle off the mortal coil, he'd hoped to do it with some dignity.

However, going out having confused them with parental pronouns? That might be a worthy end.

Damn, he was cold. His feet were going somewhat numb. He really hoped that was from the rope restraints, and not the frigid temperature.

"Focus, Tim, focus."

He was in a refrigerated warehouse. Fish? Frozen food? Frozen peas? The broken nose made it impossible to determine. They hadn't stuck him in the walk-in freezer, thank god. Instead, he was in what seemed to be an auxilliary office.

Goon squad. From what he could pick out from the noise out, at least 5, probably more. Probably including the guy who had shoved him in that trunk...how many hours ago now? It was hard to tell.

One member of the Goon Squad was apparently getting a severe chewing out on the other side of the door. By...well, Mr. Vogon was as good a term as any. Fat, stolid, no sense of humor. Sounded Russian. And, he was remembering now, the Vogon had tried to pepper Tim with questions when he arrived. The head injury had made talking difficult. Not that he had been inclined to say much of anything. For old times' sake, he had reverted to the classics. Tony would have been proud.

His inner Gibbs was not so complimentary.  
_  
Yeah, sure. Name, rank, badge number. Good job, McGee. Now: evaluate the situation. Exits?_

"Two exits, one to the outer reception area, one to the walk-in freezer, so that's out."

_Weapons?_

"A few guys with automatics, one or two with sidearms. And the big guy had a nasty looking knife, I think."

_Yours?_

Tim still had enough freedom of movement to feel for his waist holster. Damn it. Gone.

For some reason, a loud hollow noise echoed in his head, and Tim flinched. Ah. Not heard. Remembered. He looked over towards the beige filing cabinet. Yes, they had stuck his service weapon in there.

_Which is not going to help you one bit, Timothy, unless you can get yourself free to use it. Look around. From the sound of it, they never intended to keep prisoners in here, so there might be something you can use._

"Thanks, Duck." For some reason, Ducky's British accent made his suggestions of McGyvering more credible. He'd have to ask the real Ducky how he managed it.

_Ah, that is a trade secret, my boy._

_He's right, McGee. I've spent 15 years trying to figure that out.  
_  
The mutual admiration society abruptly ended, as a skinny kid stormed into the room. A really familiar kid, though he couldn't immediately place the face.

At first, Tim though, he didn't even seem to notice his captive, as he paced back and forth. He looked like a human version of Beaker from the Muppet Show.

Tim's spirits plummeted, as the guy headed over toward him. He was conscious enough to do a once over. No knife, just the one gun. And he didn't seem to be reaching for it, or anything concealed. Good. Not good: while still mumbling incoherently, or maybe incomprehensibly to himself, the guy was tightening Tim's bonds. Painfully.

"AH. Fuck."

The henchman knew that word at least, as he stopped and smiled at Tim's verbal protest. But then the smile disappeared. He spat in Tim's eye, and it took all of McGee's dignity not to flinch.

The kid stormed out, and rejoined the heated discussion going on outside.

He now wished he had chosen Russian in high school, and not Latin. Or that Ziva was here. Or that he knew what the hell was going on. And why that Russian Doogie Howser looked so familiar.

_**Then**_

__Seaman Cole Edward Ryan. On leave from Norfolk and the USS _John C. Stennis._ Found lying dead, with one gunshot between the eyes. Beaten, frostbitten, missing both ring fingers and one pinky. Dumped, wearing only his uniform pants, in a chilly and squalid alley in Anacostia.

Ducky and Palmer, having had remarkably good luck with the traffic, arrived only shortly after the rest of the team did.

One thing, Tim recalled, had popped out at him.

"He's...blue."

Tony raised an eyebrow, and seemed to be tempted to roll his eyes. But he refrained.

"Well, yeah, McPenguin, it's about 20 degrees out, in the mid-afternoon, and someone made off with his shirt. Of course he'd be blue."

"Tony is right, McGee. In this kind of weather, frostbite can set in very quickly."

Gibbs jumped in, seeming to sense that this could get out of hand.

"So, liver temp for time of death, out of the question, Duck?"

Tim, having caught up with the conversation, tried to get his point across.

"No, not his lips...his back. Look."

He knelt down, pulled on his latex gloves, and pointed to the patch of skin that had caught his eye. Tony knelt beside him, Ziva looking over their shoulder.

"Good eyes, McGee." Tim smiled gratefully at Ziva's compliment. "But that does not seem like skin, it is too...shiny. And it is somewhat wrinkled."

Tim searched his pockets for some tweezers, but Tony found his faster, and handed them over.

"It's plastic. Industrial looking. And smells like..."

He shoved the small piece towards Tony's nose, probably with a bit more force than was necessary. His partner gave him a resentful look, but performed the required duty.

"Smells like...Thanksgiving dinner. Peas, onions, green beans maybe."

Gibbs had that look on his face.

"He's lying in a trash-filled alley. Could be transfer."

"Nah, I don't think so, Boss."

Uh-oh. Tim had spoken without completely thinking it through. But fortunately, Gibbs seemed to be in a good mood. He was giving him the unspoken "Well, *why* don't you think so, McGee?" Look.

"Look at the spot where I peeled it off. The rest of Seaman Ryan looks...well, pretty much how you'd expect it to look. But that bit looks, red, irritated. I think this plastic was new when it stuck to him."

Ah, good. Gibbs seemed satisfied with that answer, and had moved on. "Ducky, Palmer, I think I can see the cause of death, but any sign of the fingers?"

"Not that I can spot, Jethro. But I can assure you that they were _not _taken as post-mortem trophies."

"Why not?"

"Because, see the blood around the knuckle, the red ragged edges of the wounds? His right ring finger, especially." Ducky looked up, his eyes very serious. "Ryan's three missing fingers were cut off while he was still alive."

That all silenced them.

"I won't have anything official until we get him back to the Yard. But preliminarily? This man was beaten, tortured, and only then did they end things with the bullet."

**************


	3. Chapter 3

_**NOW**_

"So, more beatings, torture, and death. That's what I have to look forward to. Great."

_Be thankful, Probie, it could be worse._

"*How* could it be worse, Tony?"

_They could just shoot you without any preamble, giving you no chance to effect a daring escape._

Oh lord. His brain must be in really bad shape now, if it had created a mental DiNozzo to help him deal.

_I heard that. And I resent the implication. How have I ever been anything but helpful in these situations?_

"I've never _been_ in this particular situation before. And if I'm going to go to my painful death at the hands of...whomever these guys are, I'd prefer not to be mocked as I do it."

_Damn it, McGeek, have you learned nothing in 6 years of working with me? I don't mock without purpose, I don't randomly mock, I mock...well, when mockery is called for._

"Sure."

_And you've learned to fight back pretty well, too. You're not innocent Probie of Green Gables any more. You've got a vicious streak in you, Tim. _

"Yeah, well, don't credit yourself with that. 4 years of Alameda Base High School will tend to bring that out in a guy."

_I know. And I wouldn't want you to surrender to it. We need our Good Guy, Stand-up Boy Scout as often as we need our Secret Ninja Warrioress._

"Leaving you as Smooth Bond-like Secret Agent?"

_Sean Connery, not Roger Moore, though. 'Cause Connery was more dignified._

"Of course, no question about that."  
_  
But you've learned to use that tough streak, too. And that's good. It's good, because it's going to get you out of here. You're going to get out of this, Tim._

"Damn it, don't start calling me Tim. If you're calling me Tim, it's really serious."  
_  
Well, this *is* the Russian mob we're dealing with here. Serious comes with the territory._

"Russian mob... Yes! Goon squad, abandoned warehouse, lots of guns. And cutting off fingers."

A flood of memories washed over him. Seaman Ryan. Payments. Computer expertise. Being shoved in the trunk of a car. And oddly enough, a set of red lace doilies. Red lace doilies?  
_  
Think, McGee. Use that big noggin of yours for what it's good for. Think of Pipe-Cleaner._

"Pipe-Cleaner?"

_Pipe-Cleaner. The hapless henchman who retightened the ropes._

"Are we starting with alliteration now, Tony?"  
_  
From the look on his face, he was the guy they were chewing out a little while ago._

Another memory flashed, this one much more helpful than the doilies.

"He was the guy. He was the guy who bashed me over the head, and then abducted me."

_What pissed them off so much, if this was all going according to plan, if they meant to kidnap you? Why? WHY, McGee?_

"Because they didn't. Because he made a mistake. He didn't expect to see me there. Because...he freaked out."

The inner conversation was rudely interrupted by the office door flying open. Ah. Damn. Mr. Vogon had finally returned.

"So, as we have thoroughly established, you are Special Agent McGee, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Badge Number 0263896743. And Anton has given me the exhaustively complete details of *how* you got here."

_Anton equals Pipe Cleaner. Got it.  
_  
"So the obvious question to continue with, now that you seem to be fully conscious..."

And with that, Vogon punched him in the chest. Tim was barely able to catch his breath through the pain, and panted for oxygen.

"Why are you here, young man?"

McGee hardly remembered that himself. But what he did remember, he wasn't about to tell his captor.

He caught his breath, and stared up at Vogon, silently. So the guy hit him again.

"You will tell me what you know. And then we will decide what we do with you."

Tim still remained silent. So Vogon punched him again, this time in the face. Pain exploded through Tim's aching head, and already broken nose.

_You're strong, Tim. He won't break you. You can get through this._

"I guess I have no choice, do I?"  
_  
Just hold on. We're coming to get you._

_**Then**_

The rest of the morning and early afternoon had been spent on basic background; the who, what, why and where of Seaman Ryan. They had almost finished up when Ducky arrived. His autopsy backed up the preliminary judgment at the scene. He held forth on that in the bullpen.

"The poor boy has bruises in various stages of the healing process, suggesting the beatings were spaced out over a period of several days. The fingers, however..."

All four of them had looked up at Ducky when he paused at that. But as usual, it was Gibbs to prompt the ME onward.

"They hadn't healed quite so well?"

"Yes. The wounds are ragged, as if they were cut off by hand with a dull serrated blade, and not a machine. All three show signs of coagulation, but not of much healing. It's hard to be exact, but I would guess that they were cut off shortly before they shot him."

Tony moved to speak, but sounded unusually serious. "As punctuation."

Ziva looked puzzled. "But if they were cut off ante-mortem, there would be a lot more blood. And yet, apart from the obvious squalor, the alley in Anacostia was pristine."

Tim followed Ziva's thought process. "Anacostia wasn't the crime scene, merely the dump site."

And as he turned to return to Jimmy and the morgue, Ducky had summed it up succinctly. "You find Seaman Ryan's fingers, you will find your murderers."

However, finding the fingers, or finding any reason why someone would cut them off in the first place, had been more of a challenge.

Tony had tried to think through it out loud:"I mean, just from the fingers... If we were back in Baltimore, I would guess the Russian mob. But I didn't know that they had as much of a presence in Washington. And Anacostia is gang territory more than mob territory."

Having sat through Tony's monologue, Gibbs had responded only with an eyebrow raise.

"Calling the Metro organized crime unit, right boss."

"And?"

"Baltimore, too."

After that was dealt with, the conversation had quickly moved on, as those directed by Gibbs tended to do.

"Ziva, he just got back from deployment, and was on leave?"

"Yes, from Iraq and the Persian Gulf. He was a radio man, dealing with coded transmissions, various computer stuff. I have been on the phone with his commander. He was talented, but quiet. Not a lot of friends, tended to keep to himself."

Tony was never able to pass up a given opportunity: "Ah, so he was basically Johnny Reb's version of McGee."

Tim had been tempted to throw a balled-up bit of paper at Tony. But throwing things at DiNozzo, while fun, was never a good idea when Gibbs was looking right at you.

Ziva's expression brightened at the last item on her list: "Ah, and it looks like he had just been promoted."

His search program had beeped, making Tim smile even wider than Ziva. He loved when he got to do this: "Yeah, well not high enough to explain what I just found."

"Put it up..."

"On the plasma, got it boss."

Gibbs glared at him slightly, and then shifted to a smile, as the four of them gathered around the screen.

"I was going through his financial records, and there initially wasn't much out of the ordinary. Single guy, had a small one-bedroom apartment he used when he wasn't aboard-ship. "

Tony was intrigued. "No girlfriend, no roommates?"

"Ziva was right, it doesn't look like he had many friends at all. Dad died ten years ago, when he was 15, no siblings, and his only family is his mom. She's a retired computer science professor, she lives out in Bethesda."

"Your *point*, McGee?"

"He's not a guy with too many expenses, but 3 months ago, he started being more than able to take care of them. Big deposits, every two weeks, from an account based out of a Baltimore suburb."

Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, but Tim almost gleefully cut him off. "The name on the account is bogus, boss. Could be a mob front."

Ziva had zeroed in on another part of the records. "On the debit side, there are only rent payments, and a few checks to his mother. Doesn't look like he spent much of it either."

Tony responded to that quickly: "Well, he only went on leave a month ago, he had no opportunity."

A horrible thought seemed to speed through the whole team.

Tim was the first to speak: "They contacted him while he was aboard the Stennis."

Tony jumped in. "And what does he have access to on there?"

The three of the chimed in in unison: "INFORMATION."

Gibbs didn't look happy, per se. But he looked determined, which was often better.

"Good work, McGee. I need to go brief Vance on this."

He looked even less happy at that prospect.

"Ziva, Tony, you go out to Ryan's apartment, see what you can pick up there. McGee, you speak her language, you go talk to to Dr. Ryan out in Bethesda. She may not be totally in on it, but those checks mean she knows something."

Three cries of "On it, boss" echoed through the bullpen.

The drive out to Bethesda had been peaceful; well, as peaceful as DC traffic could be, which was not perfect. But Tim had gotten used to it; and the solo task was satisfying.

That good feeling evaporated as soon as he pulled up to Dr. Candice Ryan's house. The white clapboard home had an enclosed porch, which was not unusual. The porch door, however, was wide open, almost bent off its hinges. Tim put his hand on his service weapon, but proceeded towards the house. He walked through the porch, and pushed the main door open.

"Dr. Ryan? My name is Agent Tim McGee, I'm from NCIS."

The living room was untouched, and looked pretty peaceful. Except for one box, upside down on the floor.

Lace doilies. Expensive, bright red. Strewn over the hardwood, almost like bloody fabric.

Tim pulled his gun, and quickly cleared the living room. But as he turned right to clear the kitchen, two things happened at once.

He saw the body. White woman, red hair, in her late 50s. Dr. Candice Ryan, lying on the floor with a bullet in her brain.

And he _felt _the rifle butt connect with the back of his skull. He spun, and tried to fight back. The guy was kicking, and clawing and elbowing. Tim got off one shot, but it only went wild, into the ceiling.

As Tim reeled from the pain in his head, his assailant landed another blow with the rifle, this time to Tim's nose. He fell backwards, whacking his head and arm on an end table as he went down.

The last thing he recalled was one phrase, in Russian.

_Chyort voz'mi!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**NOW**_

The Vogon had exited. For the second time. With very little more than Tim's opinion on the NCIS cafeteria's selection of Jello.

Unfortunately, it had cost Tim another broken rib, and several more blows to the head.  
He was now expending a great deal of effort, more than he would have liked, merely to stay conscious.

But he had gained something from this last beating session. He hoped. Mr. Vogon knew exactly as much as he currently did about the NCIS case against this Russian mob set. And given how long Tim had been sitting here? He was very certain that Gibbs, Ziva and Tony had made a lot more progress than he had. Especially since he had been spending most of that time staring, Zen-like, at the dark spot on the concrete.

Ryan. Ryan was the key. And Ryan was like him. Ryan was one of the_ Stennis's_ token nerds. Stationed in the radio room. Kept to himself. _Kept to himself._ Probably picked on in the mess hall by the more jockish members of the crew. An apt target for someone from the mob.

Someone who wouldn't have needed force, or even threats of it. Suavity, and subtlety, would have sufficed. "Mr. Ryan. I think we have need of your special skills. You are not so well compensated by your Navy, yes? Don't worry. You will give us what we need, and we will never talk again."

That someone knew exactly where Ryan was vulnerable. It was a set of vulnerabilities Tim knew intimately. Insecurity. Inferiority. Fear. The fear of failure. The intense fear that somehow, sometime, someone was going to find him out and take everything away from him.

NO. Damn it, no. He was not going to be sucked back into this again. Hadn't he silenced this particular demon a long time ago?

Hadn't he paid for this in blood? In bruises, in pain, in loss. Sand, and blood, and fear.

_Yes, you have, McGee. I know you listen, but do you never believe, my friend?_

"Hey, Ziva. Knew you'd show up eventually."

_Of course. I couldn't let Tony have all the fun, now could I?_

"Fun isn't the word I'd choose. It's taking everything I have to keep my vision clear."

Tim sucked in an unsteady breath.

"I don't think I can get through this, Ziva. I'm not strong, I'm not like you. "

_Well, your first point is incorrect. And the second, I am very glad of.  
_  
"What?"

_I am very glad you and I are not alike. Frankly, it would get very boring. Imagine your *average* conversation in the bullpen, with one Tony and two Zivas, or two Tonys and one Ziva. Bleah._

"When did you pick up 'bleah' as an idiom?"

_I am not exactly sure. But it is useful, yes?_

"Yup."

_Anyway...your first point is still incorrect. It is not strength you lack, McGee, but experience.  
And experience is not always everything. _

"It helps a lot, though."

_You also have more experience than you give yourself credit for. Tim, I did not know you, when you first became a field agent. But do you think you are still that man, that 'Probie'?_

"Oh god, I hope not."

_And you recall the first case we worked on together?_

"Falling into the fountain, yeah, thanks for bringing that up."

_You have not fallen into that many fountains recently, have you?_

"Nah, I've moved up in the world, I fall into muddy culverts instead."

_*snort* That was rather entertaining, yes._

"Oh, you're laughing at me now, Ziva? Is that helpful, is that..." Tim couldn't help it, and started to laugh, too.

_Well, technically, since I am only a figment of your imagination, you are laughing at yourself. Which I have been told is a very good talent to possess._

"My mother said that a lot. I think it was...what, a Shirley MacClaine quote, she said? 'The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused'."

_Your mother was a wise woman, McGee._

"That she was, Ziva, that she was."

A noise from outside interrupted the cheerful internal dialogue. Some of the goon squad had returned, and the yelling resumed.

"They're back. He's going to come back in. I don't think I can do this again."

_Listen to me, McGee. You will hang on. Remember two things: one, you are in fact, stronger than you think. The trials you have endured in the last 6 years have not been for nothing._

"And what's the other thing?"

_What did Gibbs tell you when you officially joined the team?_

"That I belong to him, now?"

_Gibbs is a very possessive man. He does not give his people up without a fight._

_**Then**_

"Zilch, nada, nyet, niente...personne...."

"Tony?"

"Yes, Ziva?"

"You know how many languages I speak."

"I have an approximate idea, yes."

"Do you really want to get into a linguistic synonym contest with me?"

"...No."

"Then shut up, please."

The brief argument ended abruptly, but not surprisingly, as the two of them reached the edge of the bullpen. They had spotted Gibbs, arms crossed, wearing his trademark expression. An even darker version than usual.

"Found nearly nothing at Ryan's apartment, boss."

"That much, I got. 'Nearly' nothing?"

Ziva took pity on her partner, and stepped up.

"The place had been ransacked, stripped of anything useful, *except* the computer. However, they seem to have tried their best to demolish that as well. We dropped it off with Abby on the way up. She also said she might have something on the crime scene debris soon."

That thought seemed to bring Tony out of his funk. "Hah! We'll be fine. Abby'll give us a break in the case, and then Probie can bring it home with the is no nefarious computer business that McGeek can't unspool." He looked around the bullpen for the first time. "Where is he, anyway?"

Gibbs paused, and the frown quickly became a scowl. "Not back from Bethesda yet."

Ziva and Tony exchanged looks; the darker shade of the Gibbs-glare had suddenly become clear.

Tony's tone was light, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Seriously? The traffic we ran into wasn't that bad. And his interview with Dr. Ryan can't have taken that long."

Gibbs's scowl acquired a tinge of frustrated contempt. "I'm aware of that, DiNozzo. And he will be too, once he calls in."

Ziva found herself in the uncomfortable position of token optimist. "He will call in. Of course Not calling in would be like...I do not know, not backing up his computer files at the end of the day."

All three of them knew this. Thus, the pause in a conversation deepened all the way into a gaping hole.

The reverie was suddenly, violently broken by two noises: the *ding* of the elevator, and the ringing of the phone on Gibbs's desk. The owner of the phone went to answer it; the elevator opened to reveal an unusually bouncy Abby Sciutto, holding an evidence bag with a piece of blue plastic in it.

"How much do you love me? Right here, right now, how much?"

Tony decided to humor her. "You beautiful girl, you've broken the case?"

Abby beamed, but got slightly less bouncy. "Well, I am beautiful, but I shouldn't take all the credit. Tim helped some, if the label is correct. It's this bit of blue plastic he found."

"The one that smelled like Thanksgiving dinner?"

"The very same. As Tony's talented nose nosed out, it's got traces of peas, onions, and carrots on it. Only a few DC area companies package that particular combo.*And*, with a little finagling..."

Ziva raised an eyebrow. "Finagling?"

"Twisting, prodding, poking...anyway, I got a few letters off it."

Tony felt the rush he always loved, the pull of gravity down the hill towards a solved case."Give it to me, Abs."

"Palinowski's Frozen Foods. They've got a warehouse out in Rosslyn." Her information delivered, Abby emerged from science tunnel-vision. "Where's Timmy? He should revel in his awesome crime-scene skills."

Tony made a chopping motion, and was about to answer, when a deadly serious Gibbs loudly hung up the phone. His next sentence brought the conversation to a screeching halt.

"That was Bethesda PD. Reports of multiple gunshots at Dr. Ryan's house. Once they arrived, they found Ryan, dead. There was surplus blood, signs of a struggle, and McGee's car, abandoned."

The last bit of news rendered the other three speechless. However, Gibbs had already entered Gunny-mode, leaving no extra time for processing.

"Abby. The warehouse address?"

"2658 Front Street."

"Ziva...Legal, and their damn paperwork. Tony, contact Rosslyn PD. I want SWAT, or HRT, or hell, 5 guys with Kevlar and shotguns, and I want them there ten minutes ago."

These requests had been delivered in motion, and Gibbs was now standing next to the elevator. He had a familiar half-grin, half-sneer on his face, as he motioned with his right hand.

"Well?"

If there were any objections, they were lost in Ziva and Tony's speedy rush through the elevator doors.

*******


	5. Chapter 5

**NOW**

_Timmy....Timmy....Tim. This is your self-preservation instinct calling. Time to wake up._

"C'mon Abby_, _'s Sunday...l'me sleep in just ... just a few more minutes."

_Well, it's actually a Thursday. And no can do, McGee. Think of me as your extremely annoying internal alarm clock._

"Hurts...hurts too much..."

_I know it does, Tim. But it won't be much longer. Now get up, right now, and get moving. Or so help me, I will kick your ass so hard when you get out of the hospital.._.

She'd do it, too. He knew that.

So with a lot of effort, Tim McGee awoke. Having passed out during the last beating, he had no way of telling how much time had passed.

The pain, being in no especially new places, soon subsided to a dull ache. It was soon subdued by new sensory information, being relayed by his ears and eyes.

There was a slight shaft of light coming through the door of the office. And the yelling had gotten louder. The yelling had gotten significantly more complicated, linguistically. Tim had long since used up his paltry Russian vocabulary. But he was pretty sure the men outside were not arguing over whether to execute him. Instead the argument was over whether to execute him right now, or sometime later on.

He was tending towards option C. Namely, not at all.

He needed to get out. He'd seen first hand what these guys had done to Seaman Ryan. He needed a plan. It hurt to do so, but he kept tugging at the ropes that bound his arms to the chair. He also decided that a 360 degree view of the room was immediately necessary.

It felt ridiculous, but Tim finally mastered the technique to bouncing his chair up and down in place. He then moved on to bouncing it in a circle, moving several degrees at a time. He even managed 90 degrees before he completely ran out of energy.

He looked around and up again; not much more of an inspiring view than he had had before. He then looked down.

Tim mentally cursed himself. He had been sitting with his back to a metal desk the entire time, without even knowing it. Old style, probably. 1970s; long-lasting, but not very elegantly made. He thought back to his days in base high school, but now the reverie was with a purpose. Those desks were not sleek or stylish, or futuristic (well, maybe in the old Battlestar Galactica sense, but definitely not in the Star Trek: The Next Generation sense.) They had corners, they had edges, they had sharp places.

And there was one, right there. Tim felt at the bonds around his wrists. Pretty tight. Pretty close to his wrists. Uncomfortably close to the veins in his arms. But he had no choice.

Without the ropes on his arms, he could get to the ones on his legs. Without the ropes on his legs, he could get to the filing cabinet. And in the cabinet, was his weapon.

Tim found the sharp edge with his hand, matched twine to metal, and started the laborious process.

He was going to get out. He had survived too much to be unceremoniously shot in the head next to frozen green beans. When he died, he wanted a little fanfare, damn it.

_******_

Tony realized, waiting outside the dingy Rosslyn warehouse, that he had crossed a Rubicon somewhere. Maybe 3 or 4 years back.

He wasn't sure where he had picked up the term Rubicon either. Although he suspected it had been that distribution requirement course back in college. The class on late Roman history which had turned out to be a lot more fun than he thought it would be.

He had been a local LEO. He still gloried in telling Ziva or Tim his Baltimore war stories. The useful and weird bits of information you only picked up working early morning or late night shifts.

But waiting now, chomping at the bit while Rosslyn PD decided when the right time was to go in? He wasn't a cop who was presently an NCIS agent. He was an NCIS agent who used to be a cop. Tony was pretty sure there was a subtle difference, even if he couldn't write it down in words.

Rosslyn was a pretty decent size town. Rosslyn, thankfully, had a SWAT team. And Tony wasn't sure how, and maybe he didn't want to know, but Ziva had worked more magic with Legal, and a Fairfax County judge, then he had ever seen her work before. Or probably would see her work at any time in the future. The woman could be damn smooth, when she wanted to be. It was mostly that she rarely ever saw the utility of "smooth."

Ha. The conversation between Gibbs and the SWAT leader had ended. The latter turned to his men, and Gibbs turned towards him and Ziva. They were going in.

The guy with the battering ram did his thing. (Tony thought for a minute that there must be a technical name for the guy, but he had never known it.) The relatively frail door didn't last past one or two uses of the thing.

Then it was a raid, and it went how these things usually went. Noisy and bright, controlled chaos. Tony watching Ziva's back, and Ziva watching his, and Gibbs at the front.

The minions scattered like roaches, as the NCIS team and the Rosslyn PD stormed in to the main processing room. Tony judged in about two seconds that if this really was a Russian mob set, it was a pretty pathetic one. Or perhaps a breakaway _capo_ who hired his own guys for some foolhardy scheme. (What the hell was the word for _capo_ in Russian anyway? He felt that his movie knowledge should have supplied the term, and was disappointed that it hadn't.)

The SWAT guys were clearing the side rooms, as Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva pushed through to to the next. Gibbs taking point, flanked by his junior agents to the rear, their weapons raised. It was a smaller room, but still big. Filled with cardboard boxes, one door at the back. Its only occupant: one very rotund man currently pointing a sawed-off shotgun at their boss's head.

Gibbs was calm. Preternaturally calm, like usual.

"Yadkornivich. Evgeny Yadkornivich."

(Gibbs had obviously made some phone calls on the way over. Not surprising.)

The well-dressed thug hefted the gun, and replied.

"You have merely scattered mercenaries, bandits, thieves. You think you have won?"

"Not yet. I want my agent. Right now."

"You ask for what I cannot give. But, pah." The fat man, now sweating, spat at the floor. "You want his corpse, I can give that to you. Why you want the corpse of a pathetic boy-child, I do not know."

Tony felt his heart beat faster, and would have glared holes through the man's skull if he could. He glanced over towards Ziva, and saw her flinch in the same fashion.

But then he finally looked over towards Gibbs. And he saw a huge grin spread on the older man's face.

Gibbs wasn't looking at Yadkornivich, but past him, past Evgeny's (glaringly obvious) toupee.

The door. The door Tony had noticed when he first entered the room. It was now wide open.

Standing in the doorway, backlit by the crappy fluorescent lighting of the office beyond, was a familiar lanky silhouette. That of a bloodied, battered, and from the looks of it, very angry, Tim McGee. Pointing his service weapon at the back of the mobster's head. McGee moved silently to with about 5 feet of the other man.

Gibbs returned his gaze to the mobster, whose macho facade hadn't faltered.

"Nah, I'll take my agent alive, now, if that's all right with you. Looks to me like he'd like to go home, too. Whaddya say, Tim?"

"Sounds good to me, boss."

McGee punctuated that sentence by audibly cocking his gun. Tony made a mental note, for later, to compliment Tim on his style.

Yadkornivich froze. But he was not a stupid man, and seemed to glean the situation almost immediately. He knelt, placing the shotgun on the ground, and putting his hands behind his head.

All four of them immediately gathered around to subdue him. Grabbing the cuffs from his pocket, Tony handed them towards McGee.

"If you'd like to do the honors?"

"Don't mind if I do, Tony."

All of Yadkornivich's bravado seemed have melted out of him, as he rose slowly to his feet. Gibbs made one look to Ziva, nodding his head towards the front door. Yadkornivich looked Ziva up and down appraisingly. Apparently even mobsters knew better than to make any attempt, because Evgeny then headed off with her, meek as a kitten. The three men looked after her, silently admiring the inherent calming effect she had on violent criminals. (Tony inwardly wondered if it worked on cats, too.)

He then looked over to his other partner. Who was, he realized for the first time, covered in a whole lot of blood.

Tim seemed to sense Tony's unspoken question, and answered it quickly.

"Yeah, Tony, most of it's mine. It looks worse than it is. I did manage to get in a few good shots on Anton, though, when he came into check on the noise. He's in there, on the floor, by the way. Thanks for the distraction."

"Anton?"

"My abductor. Pipe-Cleaner with Eyes, or so you called him." Tim smiled slightly, and Tony was surprised at just how much that reassured him. "It was pretty funny."

Tony was now incredibly confused, and from the looks of it, Gibbs was too.

"Probie, we just got here."

It seemed to take Tim a minute to process that. "Oh, yeah, sorry." He started to move gingerly towards the door, but Gibbs's solid and restraining arm grasped him around the elbow.

"McGee, slow up a bit. We've got an ambulance outside, and you're going to find some place to sit down until they can check you out."

However, McGee seemed intent on getting out of the place as fast as possible. Not that, from Tony's own experience, he could really blame him. Tim extricated himself from Gibbs's grip, and headed towards the next door, his boss and partner close behind.

"Boss, seriously, I'm fine, I've had... had enough of frozen vegetables to last a lifetime. I just need to get some air..."

Tim had almost reached the door at that sentence. However, the tiny store of adrenaline-fueled energy he had been operating on seemed to suddenly wear out.

Fortunately, Gibbs and Tony had been following close behind. Each of them grabbed hold of an elbow and a shoulder as Tim passed out and collapsed towards the ground. Tony lowered him gently the rest of the way, while Gibbs grabbed the formerly unused walkie-talkie from his belt.

"Hey, this is Gibbs, to whomever's out there, WHERE THE HELL ARE MY PARAMEDICS?"

While Gibbs yelled into the radio, Tony awkwardly cradled McGee, trying to keep him off the cold cement floor.

"It's okay, McGee, you're doin' just fine. We're here now. You did good, Probie, you did good."

*******


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Tim McGee awoke to pain. But it was not quite such a painful pain as before. It was a kind of floaty pain, and there was cold, and there was comfy involved as well. (And then his inner writer joined the conversation to ask, what the hell did he think he was doing right there with that flagrant misuse of adjectives?)

With all the random sensations involved in this return to consciousness, Tim was briefly worried that he was back in the warehouse again.

But it was far too bright for the warehouse. And he was pretty sure there hadn't been pillows there either.

Or, for that matter, an IV needle sticking into his arm. Although Tim was pretty sure he didn't object to that part of it.

He was lying in a hospital bed. This seemed to him to be a vast improvement in the situation as he had known it.

And there was Gibbs sitting in one of the really ugly chairs by his bed, reading a Washington Post.

Tim opened his eyes wider, and managed a soft, "Hey."

Gibbs smiled softly, and folded the newspaper.

"Hey, Tim."

"Case?"

"Wrapping up nicely. Apparenly Yadkornivich was ex-mob, who tried to strike out on his own. ID'ed Ryan as a weak link for espionage and defense contractor info. He paid, Ryan provided. Ryan squeezed him for more, tried to blackmail him. Evgeny overreacted. At least, according to Ryan's computer. All of which we would have found out faster if we hadn't had to rely on the JV squad in Cybercrimes."

There had been a hint of playful needling in that, and Tim smiled.

"Well, Boss, I was kind of tied up at the time."

Gibbs smirked, but refused to give McGee the satisfaction of laughing at the joke.

"You'll make it up to me, somehow, I'm sure."

"Ziva? Tony?"

"They're fine. I think DiNozzo was threatening to bring you Jello, the last time I cared to listen."

A panicked thought suddenly went through Tim's mind: Gibbs was being funny. Gibbs was being quiet. Gibbs was being nice, and he was being quiet. This could not be good.

"I'm not dying, am I?"

Annoyance now passed over the formerly calm countenance.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, McGee."

"Good."

Tim leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes half-way.

"But you were right, McGee: death would be no excuse."

Tim's eyes shot wide open once again. Gibbs was, for him, grinning very widely.

"You talk in your sleep."

"How much did I say?"

"Not that much. I couldn't follow most of it."

"I...my head hurt, a lot. I was alone, and my mind was racing. I started talking it through, thinking how to handle things, how _we_ would do things. And...I don't know, stuff just got a little mixed up."

One of the background beeps started beeping faster. Gibbs's expression softened at the panic in his junior agent's voice.

"Tim, you don't have to explain yourself to me. You survived. You saw it through. Whatever got you there..."

"You guys got me there. All of you. I don't want to sound like Dorothy, but..."

"Dorothy?"

"Heck, even Tony helped."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that."

"He'd never let me live it down."

"Nope."

Tim felt the morphine drip kicking in, but looked over to Gibbs once more.

"You're really here? I mean, I'm really here, and you're not just a especially loud voice in my head?"

"Go to sleep, McGee."

"On it, Boss."

***fin***


End file.
